The Narratives of Kaos: Book 1: Chapter 1: Chris

The Narratives of Kaos

Book 1:

Mystique

Chapter 1

Chris

    Chris Lasiter always knew his superiorities were curses. Being King of Kaos: a curse. The swords that were sheathed to his sides: a curse. His immortality: a filthy, wretched curse that ate away at his sanity…

    Or whatever was left of it.

    He attempted, desperately, to put those thoughts aside as he trekked the forest surrounding his castle, the only thing directing him being the heavy parchment in his vest pocket; a letter from the King of Cegord, Ligier Pod.

    In honesty, Chris had skimmed through the letter after seeing Pod’s signature at the bottom. Since Cegord was one of the three minor kingdoms of Kaos, Chris was technically his king. That didn’t stop Pod, or  King Joseph and Queen Vavilla for that matter, requesting his presence whenever an issue arose. No matter how miniscule. 

    Chris wondered what the man wanted. He didn’t bother check the letter. That would be of no use. None of the minor rulers were ever upfront. Besides, the night was still going strong, with only the faintest of sunlight peeking through the lowest of forestry.

For a mortal, the journey between Chris’s and Pod’s castles would require three days travel. That being with proper rest and nourishment. Chris, however, with no necessity for nourishment, sleep, or any type of halt whatsoever, had made the trip, many times, in less than two. He was on time with that mark, passing the lower oaks. He had to duck a number of branches most wouldn’t, the limbs of the trees sometimes brushing at his grey hair as he went.

The late autumn wind was a gentle caresser of the vegetation that was still damp from the night’s precipitation. The sun was just beginning to rise, light peeking over the horizon, that of which consisted of the jagged, white-tipped peaks of mountains to the west; while, to the east, stars were sprinkled across the darkening sky. Directly above, clouds, matching the man’s eyes in color, roamed slowly. The smell of rainfall lingered in the air as a coolness swept through the trees, contrasting well with the colorful warmth of the forest’s leaves.   

A rather large river sat a bit ahead. The gurgling of rushing water was the only sound that could be heard throughout the assortment of trees. The river bank had been recently polished with mud as dew descended from the blades of grass beside it, rolling down the bank.  A crescent moon reflected perfectly over the glassy surface. The only defection; small ripples caused by leafs of roasted chestnut and faded maroon gently tumbled down from the mighty oaks before they sailed away through the jet streams of miniature mesas.

They disappeared under the bridge.

It was old, the bridge. Dilapidated wood, plastered together what seemed like eons ago. Insects squirmed in and out of cracks in the railings and under the skin the trees had shed that missed the waterway.  

Chris crossed the bridge.

Creak! Creak! Creak!

With every step the sound came with it.

Creak! Creak Creak!

He stopped.

Tweet! A bird sounded, perched on a low hanging branch.

He began again

Creak! Tweet! Gurgle!

Creak! Tweet! Gurgle!

Creak! Tweet Gurgle!

He deliberately hastened his step to end the melody, yet it would ring in his head for some time.

Creak! Tweet! Gurgle!

He nearly leaped off the bridge. The decaying overpass let out one final moan before settling. The bird flew off, and the only sound left was the gurgling of the river.

He stood there for hours, patiently listening to the tweets and gurgles, every so often looking back at the bridge to check if something was on it.

“You’re late,” Chris said. A figure emerged from the shadows of the path before him.

This figure was a man, roughly in his mid-forties. His short, brown hair was neatly trimmed, and his face was completely shaven. He wore a tan, leather doublet with carob trousers and boots. His broadsword was sheathed to his side as if he were still a knight. Those days were far gone, however.   

“Apologies,” the man walked up to Chris and bowed slightly.

“I abhor it when you bow.” That was an understatement. Lothe was more a corresponding term, especially when such a gesture came from this man; John Mullen.

“Loyal to a fault.”

“Don’t I know it.” Chris’s mind reflected on the many battles Mullen had accompanied him through. During which, Mullen had lost a lot of things, though none more impactful than his beloved wife.

“I received King Pod’s parchment earlier this week,” Chris said as they began to walk together. “Any idea of what he wishes of me?”

“Advice is what I’m told,” Mullen said.

“A congregation, no doubt.”   

“He fears war with Joseph. The rivalry between Cegord and Stock is increasing tremendously.”

Chris closed his eyes, slight pain coursing through his brain. “I suppose if Pod’s intentions concern the rivalry, then it would be best for me to indulge. Civil war is not what we need with Florch on the loose.”

Mullen had a hitch in his step when Florch’s name was spoken. “Florch? But he hasn’t been seen in nearly twenty years.”

“There is an abundance of things that one cannot see, yet that in no way means they are not present.”

Chris could tell Mullen wanted to remain silent. Florch was not a subject he, or anyone in Kaos, wanted to discuss. Nonetheless, he knew the conversation was inevitable. “Perhaps he truly is gone. It has been over two decades.”

“Be that as it may, I mustn’t hypothesize without evidence. I cannot risk giving him such an advantage.”

“Chris Lasiter; ever the strategist.”

“John Mullen; ever the procrastinator.”

“What do you mean by that?” Mullen asked with a frown.

“How long has it been since you’ve retired from Pod’s order?”

“A few years.”

“Exactly, and how long has it been since you’ve desired to regain your position in the Cegord ranks?”

Mullen kept his eyes on the path ahead. “A few years,” he repeated.

“Have you asked King Pod for your return?”

“Not particularly...”

“The evidence is suffice.”  

Mullen didn’t extend a further comment on the subject. He knew that Chris would defeat anyone in a battle of words. Outwitting the man was improbable. Rather, he decided to change the subject altogether.

“You finally finished forging your swords, I see,” he said, eyeing the immortals’ waist.

“Indeed. Took me long enough.”

“They are the blades from your previous life? The alternate reality?”

Chris stopped. Memories, too many to picture, flooded his mind. “Yes.” He continued.

“Cutlass blades?”

“That is what they were called.” It was Chris’s turn to want a change in their conversation. He had no desire to speak of his life before he was magically transported to Kaos.

The two continued as the forest opened to a grassy plain; a sign that their journey was coming to an end. Instead of trees and foliage, there was an open area of sod. The path before them branched into three, each leading to one of the three minor kingdoms; the left leading to Greal, the middle to Cegord, and the right to Stock. The kingdoms themselves could be faintly seen with the sun now fully up.

Before the path’s division stood a tavern. Jokingly called the Crossroads Tavern, it was a place that merchant traders rested when traveling.

The exterior took the appearance, not of a tavern, but more of a royal cottage, with a humongous wooden structure and a fixture of glass windows with window boxes on the upper level, and above them, the thatched roof. Lanterns were hung on the pillars in front, and were now being extinguished by an older man due to the arriving sun.

Sulric Giddish, the owner of the tavern, was no stranger to Chris. “Morning, gents,” he said as he doused the last lantern. “What set of circumstances brings upon this pleasure of mine?”

“I’m on my way to Cegord,” Chris offered simply, peeking through the open doorway, taking in the sight of the residents within the tavern indulging in an early breakfast.

Sulric nodded. “Ah. This wouldn’t happen to have some connection with the return of… Florch.”

“I am unaware at the moment, but according to what I’ve heard the past very weeks, I wouldn’t be surprised.”      

“He’s bound to return at some point, Chris. I hope you're prepared.”

Mullen let out a loud, fruitful laugh. “When is Chris Lasiter not prepared?”

“A good question indeed. I pray that day never comes.” He shuttered. “Would you two like to come in for a rest, maybe some food and drink.”

“You know my body doesn’t need nourishment,” Chris said, his voice carrying a bit more volume. He didn’t know the pleasures of eating, drinking, and sleeping.

“Doesn’t mean you can’t buy something,” Sulric said with a mischievous grin. “Work’s been tough since my son moved. Nobody left but me and Nerida.” He turned to the doorway and looked at the bar, where a young woman was fast asleep on the counter. He sighed, then turned back. “Hey, maybe one of the children you’re looking after can come help me with some things.”

“I run an orphanage, not a labor camp.”

Sulric shrugged, turning and entering his tavern. “Just saying I could use the assistance.”

Mullen began to follow. “Do stop by on your journey back, won’t you?”

“You’re not joining me?” Chris asked, not surprised in the slightest.

“Well, it’s been a long night, and I’m somewhat in the mood for something warm to consume. Food, beverage, what have you.”

“This wouldn’t have to do with meeting Pod, would it?”

“No.”

“Of course,” Chris said in a voice that was drenched in sarcasm. “You best ask for your return soon.”

Mullen didn’t offer a rebuttal as he too disappeared into the tavern.      

The houses that aligned the cobblestone streets of Cegord consisted of the same material, along with wood from the timber of the nearby forest, and in the case of the less wealthy homes, hay, sedge, and reeds on thatched roofs.

People exited their homes, not yet fully awake, greeting each other as they passed. Peddlers and merchants appeared at the sides of the road, offering up bargains for items of desire rather than necessity. A few horse-drawn carriages passed by, some carrying precious material, others goods from the harbor.

The fresh smell of bread from the nearby bakery and autumn's crisp breeze was a perfect combination. The heavenly sight of the sun peeking over the shoulder of Cegord Castle, eliminating the diluted darkness that had come before it to reveal a welcoming blue, was nothing short of familiar to the people of Cegord. They had conferred this wonderful package so much that most had taken it for granted.

Everything appeared customary, until someone said, “Is that Chris Lasiter?” That’s when things became hectic.

An onrush of human bodies advanced directly toward the King of Kaos, offering niceties, plans to spend time with him, and laws they wanted passed. Chris was too fond of human life to be any sort of strict, though he was known to be, so he attempted (unfruitful in his results) to excuse himself past the large crowd that now blocked the road.

As he was making leeway, a short elderly man limped his way to the front of the crowd, turned to them, his arm spread, his other firmly gripping his cane, and said in a loud, booming voice, “HOLD YOURSELVES!”

The crowd surprisingly became silent.

The old man continued, this time with a firm tone. “The King has much to worry about right now, it would be most benevolent of you to rid yourself from his path. I understand you all have something you wish to tell him but it will have to wait for another time.”

The crowd murmured, looked at Chris, and when he nodded, groaned in unison and dispersed, continuing their day.

“Much appreciation, Mr. Bradshawe.” Chris said after the crowd had fully parted.

“Uh huh,” the man said disparagingly, running his long, bony fingers through his cloud-like hair. “I’ll let them have you next time if you don’t start calling me Max.”

“I will if you can get Mullen to stop bowing.”

Max scoffed. “Not possible.”

“Then Mr. Bradshawe it is.”

They began to walk, Chris moved steadily so that he kept pace with Max as he limped along. He could feel the eyes of passers by on him as they continued on. Max would say something, and Chris would have to pick up what he said a few moments after the fact. Every so often a man or young woman would come up and attempt to shake Chris’s hand or randomly embrace him, but Max was very good at keeping them at bay, using his cane to jab at their feet telling them to keep moving.

“So,” he said after a while, “what brings you to Cegord?”

“Pod sent me a letter. Apparently he is in necessity of my advisement.”

“What about?”

“I have a few hypotheses regarding it.” Chris, desperate to not hear another word regarding Florch, changed the subject. “How is Percival?”

“Buried under a tombstone.” Max said, his face illuminating with a smile.

“Don’t act ignorant, you know I meant your son.”

He grinned from the side of his mouth.“He’s well.”

“I suppose you’re housekeeper is watching him now, no?”

“Seeing as how he isn’t in my care as of the moment, and this is the time of day Tia is at work. I think you’ve finally outdone yourself in terms of intelligence, Chris.” He stopped and clapped loudly. “Well done.”

They continued on, until they passed Max's house. It was an old house, freshly refurbished and repainted from its old silver-blue color to more of a lilac look.

“Alice’s favorite color,” Max explained. “Tiam and I figured that she might be able to find us that way.”

Chris nodded. “How’s she been through all this, Tiam?”

“Better, now that Pod has the whole Cegord militia looking for her. Still in a constant state of worry.”

“What mother wouldn’t be?”

Max nodded, then sighed. “Do write me when you get back,” Max limped up to his home. “One grows fearful when his mentor doesn’t stay in contact for a long period of time.”

“It’s been two months,” Chris reminded him. “You came to visit.”

Max waved his hand dismissively as he reached the door. “Just don’t anger Pod to the point where you can’t return. I hear he’s already in a foul mood.” With that, he entered his house, closing the door firmly behind him.

Good to know, Chris thought.

The Rukrus, the Castle of Cegord, sitting on the edge of a cliff overlooking the Eastern Sea, was a structural masterpiece of cobble and limestone with hints of blue outlining nearly every crevice. It wasn’t the best look for a fortress, but it fit Pod’s signature perfectly. Three cobalt spires reached up to the sky that was now perfectly coordinated with them. On the towers, turrets of three overlooked the world around, ready for siege warfare.

Standing in the entrance way was King Pod. Blue robes of every shade consumed him. His thick, brown hair flowed down to his neck in smooth waves. At his side, he held his royal scepter, which was odd since Pod normally didn’t carry it; it was much too valuable.  

They exchanged pleasantries, made their way through the blue onslaught that was the corridors of Pod’s home, and together they swept down the stairwell, their shadows dancing on the stone walls due to the mounted torches that hung just above. The sounds of their footsteps rang out through the passage, making it so that a few mice could scurry into diminutive holes settled in crooks between certain steps and the enclosure. Cobwebs hung loosely on the sloping ceiling as if some servants had deplorably attempted to sweep them away.  When they reached the bottom, two guards, equipped with chainmail armor that gleamed in the torchlight, stood before a wooden door. The latch upon it was nearly broken off, hanging solely on one hinge.

Without a word, the left guard opened the door, which creaked open in such a leisurely manner that Pod had to push it open the rest of the way.

The dungeon, if one could call it a dungeon, was a large corridor with an array of barred cavities, closed and locked with no sign of weakness like the heavy door that came before.  Around the room, pillars, chiseled from stone, stood erect, holding the ceiling overhead. One solitary torch lit the room in such a way that the back half of the cells couldn’t be seen.             

Pod motioned to one of them. “He’s in there.”

An adolescent boy sat in the corner, in a catatonic-like state, his arms wrapped around his knees, holding them to his chest. His face was caked in filth, his clothes in tatters, and his greasy hair cascaded down his forehead in uneven, oily strands.

“Francis Cobham,” Chris mused. Now everything made sense.

“I sent my letter as soon as he was caught,” Pod sneered.

“What did he do, pray tell, to end up in such a locus.”

Pod eyed Francis, who was glaring with a bit of hope delineated in his countenance. “This scoundrel broke into my private quarters, and tried to make off with this.” He held up his scepter.

Chris nodded. “Is it…?”

Pod twisted the azure topaz atop his scepter and pulled, revealing a blade that had been hidden by the shaft. He quickly hid it again.

Chris looked back at the prisoner. “He couldn’t possibly know what it really is.”

“Then why would he try and steal it?”

“To sell it,” Francis said suddenly. “Oh, by the way, I can hear.”

“I am aware,” Chris said, “but I’m more interested in what you have to say. What is it you know about this scepter?”

“Other than the fact that it’s valuable, and, from what I’ve just seen, it is also a sword of some kind.”       

Chris sighed. Of course, the young man wouldn’t tell anything, even if he knew. He decided to put all that aside. “Then tell me, Mr. Cobham, why, after the abundance of things I’ve done to save you from punishment,” he paused at Francis’s roll of his eyes, “do you continue to take part in such contraventions.”

“How many times must I tell you, old man, I don’t want your help.”

“Yes, you have been quite eminent about that. However, it appears that my assistance is the only thing keeping you from spending the rest of your life in a confined space.” He looked around the cell and nodded. “I see you have excellent taste in judgment. Well, you can send me a letter when you wish for a life on the outside. Good day, Mr. Cobham.” With that, Chris turned at began walking back to the door.

“Wait,” Francis muttered, barely above a whisper. “What are you proposing?”

Chris continued walking. “Stay out of trouble and your release will be swift.” He then left the dungeon, Pod closely behind.

“You want me to release him?” Pod asked as they entered the foyer. Hie fists were clenched and his knuckles white.

“I’m glad we can see eye to on this,” Chris said, making for an exit..

Pod rushed to catch him. “You can’t be seriously considering letting him loose. He’s a criminal.”

“A criminal with minor charges against him.”

“Attempting to steal my royal scepter is not a minor charge.”

Chris halted, turning to the King of Cegord. “All right, if you had not sent me a letter, how long would he be sentenced?”

“Under Cegord law; five years.”

“five?” That’s a bit excessive for a scepter, no?”

“A scepter and one of the Swords of Power,” Pod reminded him.

Chris stroked his beard, going into deep thought. “What will it take for you to set him free?”

“I fail to understand why you insist on this.” Pod was unmistakably dismayed. “The boy refused your first offer for him to join your orphanage. If it was me in your position, I would have cut my ties with him long ago. Why do you desire to help him so?”

“I don’t desire to see this young man forced into a life of crime because he had a lapse of judgment. What will it take?” he repeated.

Pod sighed. “I have a congregation in the spring with Chathral Ronan. He’s representing Joseph in some sort of deal between us. I would like you to be there, just so the man doesn’t ploy me into something.”

“Chathral isn’t going to attempt anything of the sort. And Joseph isn’t an evil spawn of Inprodus as you so believe.”

“Nonetheless, those are my terms.”

“Very well. Release the boy tomorrow, make sure he is well fed and his thirst quenched.” The two shook hands and parted ways. Before Chris could exit the castle, however, he turned and called, “Ligier.”

Pod turned.

“Mullen.”

“What about him?”

Chris thought for a moment. “He’ll be there as well.”

Pod nodded, then disappeared into the next room.

Chris’s mouth twitched. It wasn’t a smile, nowhere near, but it was further to one than Chris had gotten in years.

He decided his trip back would involve a stop at the Crossroads Tavern. Maybe Mullen could finally find the guts to ask for his return.